“What do you want to see me about?” asked Davitt, without waiting for the stranger to speak and looking him directly in the eyes.
“That’s a straight question, and why not? My name’s Quigley. I’m Matt Hull’s foreman. Maybe that’ll tell you something.” He nodded confidently.
“It doesn’t tell me a thing except that you’re working for Hull,” Davitt said coldly. “What am I supposed to do, cheer?”
Quigley scowled. “You may want to cheer later on, but just now it ought to interest you, since you’ve taken on old Lamby’s case of bellyache. You don’t think I’m picking up with strangers, do you?”
“That makes it altogether different,” said Davitt in a more amicable tone. “I’m to suppose that Lamby’s trouble is a sort of family affair between those two ranches up there, with you as a very important figure. Well, Quigley, what’s your proposition?”
Quigley signaled the bartender to cover his discomfiture. He shot an appraising look at Davitt and drew a long breath. “I guess I’ve got to take that as meaning well,” he said slowly, “for that’s the only way it’ll pay you to be mean toward me.”
“If that’s a threat, you’re wasting your time,” Davitt said sharply. “And I’ll tell you that any advance information you’ve got is wrong. If I should find out it’s right, I’ll make it wrong.”
“Oh, you’re obstinate, eh?” Quigley said with a faint sneer.
“No, but I don’t like your style of opening,” Davitt retorted.
“All right, I’ll change it,” snapped Quigley. “Lamby’s told you he’s been losing cattle. He’s hired you and that locoed waddy to find ’em. He’s got half a notion his cattle have been straying on our range and staying there. Being Hull’s foreman, I don’t like it. Is that plain enough?”
“That’s plain enough, but, if it’s true, what’re you going to do about it?” Davitt asked curtly.
“I don’t have to do anything about it,” said Quigley angrily. “I’m just trying to meet you halfway, that’s all. If there’s any rustling going on up our way, I want to know about it, and I want to know who’s doing it, and I want it stopped. Now I reckon you know where I stand.”
Davitt pursed his lips. “Sounds straight enough. Do you happen to know anything about it?”
“If I knew anything for sure, it’s a cinch I wouldn’t be talking to you about it,” Quigley said scornfully.
“Well, you talk as if you knew something,” Davitt said, frowning. “I may like to solve riddles, but I don’t like to have ’em talked at me.” He looked at the other frankly.
“I can’t say anything very well unless I know what you intend to do,” said Quigley, leaning over his glass.
“And I can’t very well tell you what I’m going to do when I don’t know myself,” Davitt said with a shrug. “That puts us right back where we started, except that I’ve learned who you are, that you’ve had some kind of information, that you’re interested and all-fired curious, and that you’ve got some kind of idea in your head about this trouble up at the Triangle. That sort of gives me an edge, Quigley, and I’m content to let the matter lay as it is. There’s no reason why I should talk any more with you that I can see.”
“Yeah?” jeered Quigley. “Well, it’s what you don’t see that cuts a figure, mister. You think you’ve learned a lot, but you’re not smart enough to keep it to yourself. If there’s anything underhanded going on, it’s clues you want, not just a few conclusions like you’ve jumped at.”
Davitt’s manner changed instantly. He took his drink, drew tobacco and papers from a pocket, and began to roll a cigarette. “All right, Quigley,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, “now what is it you want to tell me?”
The abrupt transformation took Quigley completely by surprise. With one deft question, aptly put, Davitt had given Quigley charge of the conversation and made it necessary for him to lead it. He cleared his throat and tossed off his drink, scowling at Davitt as the latter calmly lighted his cigarette.
His eyes narrowed slightly but his gaze became calmly quizzical. “You seem to think I know a whole lot more than I do, Davitt. I guess Lamby has lost some cattle because what would be the sense in him making such a fuss if he didn’t have anything to back it up? It’s bound to get around that he brought you into this thing, and if he didn’t have good reason, he’d only be making a fool out of you, or a fool of himself. I don’t think you’re dumb enough to let him put anything over on you, and I can’t see how it would do him any good.”
Davitt was listening intently, and he realized that Quigley was in earnest. “You’re not sure he has lost any stock?” he asked.
“Of course I’m not!” Quigley exclaimed. “But I just told you I couldn’t see why he should say so unless he has lost some. I’ve lost some stock, too, but I’m not making any fuss because I think it’s strayed. Hull and me are new to the cattle game. Didn’t you know that? Hull’s always been in sheep. Naturally, Lamby doesn’t take to him any too hard. He’s always been in cattle. He’s hinted that his stock strayed on to our range and got stuck in a gumbo patch and couldn’t get out. That’s why I’m not sure of anything except that we don’t know anything about his cattle.”
“You think Lamby’s trying to make out that Hull stole some of his cattle because Lamby doesn’t like him?” Davitt persisted.
“I’m hinting there might be some feeling because Lamby is a cowman and Hull once was in sheep,” replied Quigley steadily. “Naturally I’m sticking up for Hull. But it’s possible there might be some rustling going on. I can’t take the time right now to find out. From what I’ve heard, that part of it is going to be up to you. If I knew anything for sure, I’d be working on the business myself. They say you’ve had experience in that line and you’ll be scouting around in the proper way. I’m not going to put any fool notions into your head, but …” He ceased talking and stared at his own reflection in the mirror.
“It wouldn’t be the first time my head’s been full of fool notions,” Davitt observed cynically.
Quigley looked at him closely. “Maybe you don’t know it all then. Well, they use worms for fishing, and maybe you could use worms as clues. Whether you think that’s a joke or not, you won’t be liable to forget it, anyway. So long.”
Davitt stared for a full minute at the vacant doorway after Quigley had gone out. Then he burst into a loud laugh.
“Barkeep, come here,” he invited cheerfully. “We’ll take a drink on my hat. I’m hearing through it!”
Chapter Twelve
Buck Granger had hardly gained the sidewalk when he saw the man Davitt had described walking slowly on the side of the street directly across from the hotel. Although he only caught a single flash of the man’s eyes, Buck saw with a thrill that there was indeed something peculiar about them. He noted also that the man was short and slight, bowlegged and hunched in appearance. He did not remember having noticed him before.
Buck was careful that the man Davitt had called Screw-eye did not see him looking at him. For that matter, Screw-eye ignored the cowpuncher after that one direct glance. He walked faster than Buck, who strolled down the opposite side of the street, and turned in at the Green Bottle. As he went in the door, pivoting almost on his heel, Buck saw something that he thought had escaped Davitt’s notice. When in a hurry, Screw-eye betrayed a slight limp in his left leg. Buck would remember this because the man’s left foot would be the one he put first into the stirrup when mounting. Since he was one who had spent most of his life around horses, Buck naturally would remember that Screw-eye would instinctively favor his left leg in taking the saddle. Possibly it would slow the act of mounting.
Recalling what Davitt had told him, Buck felt convinced that the man was spying on them. With the conviction came the desire to act on his own initiative, in his own way. No sooner did he feel this urge than the idea as to how to do so entered his head and invested itself wit
h logical reasoning.
He crossed the street and entered the Green Bottle. With a casual glance about the large room, he sauntered up to the bar and to all appearances found himself accidentally standing next to Screw-eye. The man favored him with a fixed stare that was almost glassy. It gave Buck an uncomfortable sensation and he frowned as he put some silver on the bar and signaled to the man in the white jacket.
“Aren’t you the bozo who was standing behind my chair last night when I was trying to make a few dollars with the picture cards?” he asked the man beside him.
“Everybody tries to make a few dollars in a game,” was the short reply in a dull voice.
“I never thought of that when I asked you the question,” said Buck. “Have a drink as a favor on me so I can ask one from you.”
The man nodded to the bartender who put out a bottle and two glasses. “You don’t seem to need many favors,” he said, indicating Buck’s pile of silver.
“Oh, I’m not asking you to trade drinks,” explained Buck. “I just want to ask you not to stand behind me when you see me playing again. I’m sort of superstitious that way.”
The man flashed him a look in which malevolence lurked. “Your luck wasn’t so bad,” he rasped. His right hand thumped against the bar with an instinctive motion that was not lost upon Buck.
“You needn’t feel riled,” Buck said easily. “I’ve had a run of luck lately and I’m hoping it’ll hold out a spell. Next time you feel like looking on, let me know and I’ll buy you off.” He was watching the man in the mirror behind the bar and was rewarded by seeing the bold-shot eyes flare red for an instant.
“Here’s howdy,” said the man, tossing off his drink. “You’re a cowhand, I take it.” His look was like a keen blade.
“Make it top hand and you have it,” Buck said soberly.
“You’ll make more money on circle than you will gamblin’ with cards, or anything else,” was the rejoinder, as the man turned away.
Buck put down his glass with a bang. Taking two swift steps, he caught the man by the arm and whirled him about. “That remark will stand explaining,” he said curtly. “What was you thinking of, Screw-eye?” He addressed the other by the name Davitt had given him without thinking.
The smaller man’s eyes glittered with a fiery green light. “You couldn’t buy me off a nothin’!” he snapped savagely. “And don’t try to make a show-off by pickin’ on me, neither.”
As he was about to reply Buck felt a hand on his arm. He looked around and found a tall, rather sleepy-looking man at his side.
“What’s the matter, cowboy?” said this individual in a thick voice.
Buck bristled at this interruption. The stranger to all appearances was a cowpuncher who had begun early on a day of celebration. In the interval, Screw-eye had moved aside and returned to lounge against the bar. Buck wondered if the intercession had been intentional.
“You here again?” he said with a lift of his brows. He was trying to place the stranger and the question was a feeler.
“No, I’m here … yet,” stammered the man with a slight cough. “Say, I wanna speak to you a minute. Come into the back room with me and have a beer while we talk medicine?”
“Sure,” Buck said instantly, shooting a glance at Screw-eye who seemed to be negotiating with the bartender. “Can you walk that far?”
“You watch me,” said the other in a boastful tone. “They’ve never put my legs nor my brain to sleep yet. Don’t get me wrong, cowboy. There’s nothin’ the matter with me.”
He led Buck to the back room, waving a signal to the bartender on the way. “Sit down,” he invited, pointing to a chair at the card table as he dropped into another and sprawled with his left arm on the table. His lids parted wider and his gaze became clearer. “We’ll wait till the boy brings in a couple bottles of beer, eh?”
“You don’t need much more,” frowned Buck. “When’s the wedding?”
“Ha!” chuckled the other. “Find the bride! That’s good, ain’t it? Can’t be no weddin’ without a bride, eh? Mebbe I’m the missin’ bridegroom, eh? Mebbe you are! What’s the answer?”
Buck had been racking his brains in an effort to place this stranger, but to no avail. “Do you know me?” he asked suddenly.
“Sure, I know you,” was the braying response. “You’re Buck Granger, and you’re a cowboy … spurs and everything. Am I right?”
There was one window in the room and it was opposite the door. Buck moved his chair around so that he sat where he could see the light from the window full on the man’s face. As he did this, he stole a sly glance and saw the other’s eyes lighted with interest, the sleepy look gone. It might be that the man was feigning his apparent mild intoxication and if this were true there must be a reason for the ruse.
“Granted you’re right,” he said cheerfully, “what name are you using now?”
“Trawler,” replied the other. “Mebbe you don’t know me, eh?”
At this juncture the bartender entered with two bottles of beer and two glasses. As he tipped the caps from the bottles Trawler thrust his right hand into his trousers pocket and drew out a silver dollar that he tossed on the table in payment. In that brief space of time Buck nodded toward Trawler and frowned questioningly at the bartender. He saw the bartender shake his head slightly in the negative, which meant either that he didn’t know Trawler or that the man was no good.
Trawler filled his glass a bit unsteadily. “Here’s to good grass,” he said, blinking at Buck as he gulped the beverage.
“What you got to tell me that’s worth listening to?” Buck asked after they had imbibed.
Trawler stretched his left arm on the table and fingered his glass with his right hand, smacking his lips. “You goin’ to work soon?” he asked, squinting at the window where the sun blazed.
“When I’m good and ready, which isn’t a promise,” Buck answered.
“This is important,” said Trawler, straightening in his chair with an effort. “You goin’ back to work on Payne’s ranch?”
“I thought you said you wanted to speak to me.” Buck’s tone was sharp and cold. “What do you want … a line of information?”
“Mebbe. Who knows? I’ve always asked for what I want, and I’ve usually got it. I’ve got to ask you a question or two in order to tell you something you might want to hear.” Trawler winked sleepily.
“Ask me a hard one and maybe I’ll answer it,” Buck suggested.
“Heh! Fair enough.” Trawler leaned over the table. “Are you figurin’ on trailin’ with this man hunter that’s drifted in here?”
Buck tensed but managed to smile. “Suppose I am?” he parried.
“Bad business!” Trawler exclaimed. “The boys wouldn’t like it.”
“No?” Buck was keenly interested. “What boys do you mean?”
“Oh … the boys.” Trawler waved his right hand aimlessly. “I’m with Roy Lamby’s outfit. Now you see?”
Buck had pricked his ears instantly. If the speaker really was intoxicated he might be telling something not intended for Buck’s ears. Otherwise, he might be conveying a subtle warning. There was another point to be considered, but Buck didn’t think of it at the time.
“Suppose you come right out and speak what’s on your mind, Trawler,” said Buck in a louder voice.
Trawler’s eyes widened with a look of warning and he wiggled a finger on his puffy lips. “Not so much heat,” he cautioned. “I’m talkin’ to you and not to the whole town. If you’re figgerin’ on goin’ in with that fellow I mentioned, it wouldn’t look good, that’s all. Lamby thinks he’s losin’ cattle, and mebbe he’s got an idea where he’s losin’ ’em, that’s all. Let this fellow find out. It ain’t no hole where a cowpuncher like yourself would fit in, see?”
It occurred to Buck that the changes in inflection in Trawler’s voice as the thickness of
his speech gave way occasionally to crisp clarity, and the recurring brilliant flashes in his eyes belied the man’s apparent alcoholic condition. He managed to watch Trawler closely without rousing the latter’s suspicions. Yet he was unable to determine to his complete satisfaction whether or not the man was shamming.
“Seems to me,” drawled Buck, “if it’s just a common case of rustling, a cowpuncher would be just as good on the job as anybody else.” So Trawler knew that Lamby had hired Davitt. It didn’t look as if Lamby could be trying to keep the matter much of a secret.
“Maybe it ain’t just common rustlin’,” Trawler said with a wink. “If it was, wouldn’t Roy send the boys out to clean up the rustlers?”
“How many you got in the outfit?” asked Buck quickly.
Trawler waved his hand again. “Enough,” he said with a scowl. “The boys don’t like it and mebbe it’ll upset the range. It ain’t no place for a puncher to be takin’ a holiday.”
“Did you come in with Lamby?” Buck queried casually.
“No, I’m celebratin’ a little on my own hook,” growled Trawler, pouring the rest of the beer from his bottle into his glass and tossing it off. “What Lamby does …” He sputtered and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“Just who’re you talking for besides yourself, if anyone?”
“For your own good,” Trawler blurted. “I don’t want to see no cowhand roped into a deal he don’t know nothing about, and where he ain’t wanted. I’m doin’ you a favor by tippin’ you off.”
“You mean you’re trying to scare me off,” said Buck sharply. “You’re shooting off your mouth about something you don’t know anything about, or something that isn’t any of your business. Seems funny to me that they can let a man off to go on a bust at a busy time like this.” He was looking straight into Trawler’s wavering eyes.
“That’s another thing that ain’t any of your business,” sneered Trawler. “You gotta put your nose in, eh? All right, go to it.”
Three Trails to Triangle Page 10
